Moving on
by coliveira
Summary: When Sherlock is sent to rehab, he meets Doctor John Watson, the man responsible for turning his life around.
1. The clinic

**I saw the original idea for this story in a post on Tumblr, and I thought it was really amazing and deserved to be explored. This is the first chapter, and my idea is to continue it, although I don't know very well what will going to happen next. It is rated T because it cointains references to drugs - nothing explicit, though. Enjoy and review :)**

Sherlock woke up on a rainy morning, with all his body hurting like someone had beaten every inch of him. His blue eyes were staring at the ceiling of his bedroom with simple, white walls. He was never the kind of person that worried about decorating a place just for make it more personal. No, Sherlock didn't need it; he was already unique enough. There was no need to scream to the world who he was, no need of trying to leave an eternal mark of his unwise existence.

'Is this what you want for your life, brother dear? To wake up and don't even remember how you got here?'

Oh, God. That annoying voice - Mycroft, of course, playing the role of an insubordinate conscience, whispering at his ear how a miserable human being he was.

'What makes you think I can't actually remember?' Sherlock didn't bother looking at him. Mycroft made his pain even more intolerable, with his polish attitudes and studied speech.

The elder brother just smiled. He was not going to play Sherlock's game. This time, Sherlock would have to obey him.

'Just in case your memory got a little… diffuse, I shall inform you I found you here a week ago, laying on the floor, surrounded by needles and Mrs Hudson's screams. I hoped you were acting like a grown man by now, but I was definitely wrong.'

For Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock didn't react at his words, keeping his gaze focused on the ceiling.

'I took you to the hospital, where you stayed in coma until yesterday. Finally, I was authorized to bring you back… to this adorable place you call _home_. Doctors thought it would be better if you could wake up on the same place you fainted. They feared for your memory, you see.'

A heavy silence fell over the flat at Baker Street. Sherlock found out that even breathing was painful. Unconsciously, his eyes turned to the bedside table. Just a little movement and his pain would vanish in seconds.

However, the motion of Sherlock's eyes didn't escape from Mycroft's acumen.

'Forget about it, brother dear. There are no more drugs in this flat. Believe me. Maybe the pain you feel will make you understand the disgusting level you have come to.' Mycroft words were full of sorrow and aversion, making his voice even more irritating.

'And WHAT did you came here for?' Sherlock got up, furious. 'Are you here for tormenting me? I'm very sorry to spoil your entertainment plans. I am already enough tormented without your false care. So, I will ask very kindly – go away. Now.'

Mycroft was grinning again, his mouth stubbornly curled. Absent-minded, he started to play with his umbrella.

'I am not here for fighting. We have had this conversation once, and I really hope it will never repeat. I came here just to say something I presume you've already deduced. I'm sending you to rehab.'

Mycroft's statement hit the bedroom like a bomb. Even though Sherlock wasn't waiting for that, he couldn't show his surprise.

'You won't send me to rehab, Mycroft.' Sherlock declared, trying to stop the trembling which was taking control of his body. 'Your little brother being exposed as a drug addict is a scandal you want to avoid.'

Somehow, his words had the opposite effect Sherlock wished. Instead of dissuading Mycroft, his sentence only made him laugh.

'I really appreciate your concern, Sherlock; but, surprisingly, my reputation is not more important than you.'

Mycroft shook his head at the vision of Sherlock's tremor. What a waste. A brilliant, amazing intelligence, neglected and oppressed by such an horrible addiction.

'I'm not going.' The note of panic within his brother's voice made Mycroft's heart jump.

'Yes, you are. This time, you will go.'

Sherlock faced Mycroft for the first time since he almost dyed from an overdose. For a second, a grumpy, obstinate kid was visible through the blue eyes and dark curls.

'Make me.'

Mycroft simply grinned.

'You never learn, Sherlock. I give you one hour to prepare you bags. Remember you'll be there for a long, long time.' And he left the room, just for sitting by the kitchen, waiting patiently. He could clearly hear things being broken in pieces inside his brother's bedroom.

Hitherto, Mycroft had been comprehensive with Sherlock; maybe too tolerant indeed, hiding his relapses from his parents, making sure Sherlock was safe, spending many sleepless nights thinking about a solution for it all. Nevertheless, last week's incident had been the last drop of water in a cup which was already spilling.

Mycroft's clock marked the end of the hour he gave to Sherlock. Basically, his brother had remained sitting on the bed, arms crossed over his chest, looking at the opposite direction of the door. Fortunately, he had already sent to the clinic everything Sherlock would need.

'Come, Sherlock. Once in your life, behave as an adult.' The detective didn't move. Mycroft was reaching his limit. He picked up the mobile phone and texted someone. About one minute later, two security guards invaded the flat, grabbing Sherlock by the arms.

'Don't hurt him.' Mycroft ordered, making an effort to stay audible over his brother's screams.

The travel to the clinic was the most unbearable route the Holmes brothers had ever dealt with. For Mycroft, it was the frustration of admitting he had failed in taking care of Sherlock. For the detective, it was the loss of his self-independence and dignity.

Finally, the dark limousine stopped at the front of an entirely white building, surrounded by green, nice gardens. It seemed a recent construction, with neat decoration and aesthetic design. For Mycroft's relief, Sherlock left the limo by his own feet.

A young woman approached, smiling. A nurse, probably, Sherlock thought, feeling difficult to focus with all the anxiety and nausea he was experiencing.

'Hello, Mr Holmes', she greeted, looking at Sherlock's pale face. 'Please come with me. I will present you to your doctor.'

He started following her, but was stopped by Mycroft's arm.

'Remember this is for your own good.' He said. The detective frowned and kept going.

After walking through a long corridor, the nurse opened a door which leaded to a cozy, empty office.

'Doctor Watson will be here in any minute. Please feel comfortable to sit while you're waiting.'

Sherlock dropped his weight on a modern couch and cleaned the sweat on his forehead. The office was very alike with the rest of the clinic, simple and white, with almost no traces of identity. Pretty much like his bedroom back Baker Street, he admitted. Taking a deep breath, he was trying to calm down when he heard a slight knock on the door, and Doctor Watson appeared.

He was a short, slim man, with blond hair and deep blue eyes. His face radiated seriousness and kindness. By shaking his hand, Sherlock noticed a strong self-control, and attributed this to a possible contact with army, since Doctor Watson's stethoscope presented a camouflage pattern, seeming a bit worn out.

'Mr Holmes, my name is Doctor Watson.' The physician spoke for the first time, captivating Sherlock's attention. 'I'll be overseeing your treatment.'

The more Sherlock tried to think and memorize all he could deduce from Doctor Watson, the more he felt the blood leaving his face, with the pain he had temporarily forgotten coming back with all the strength.

'Mr Holmes, is everything alright?' Doctor Watson left his chair, showing concern.

Sherlock wanted to answer, to show how strong he was, to prove he was better than all the rehab clinics Mycroft would ever be able to find. However, he simply couldn't do it. In a second, he fell over the floor, and everything went dark.


	2. Don't spoil your life

'Mr Homes, can you hear me?'

Sherlock didn't want to answer the silly question, not even by opening his eyes.

'Mr Holmes, can you hear me?' Doctor Watson's voice kept secure and warm, and Sherlock strangely realized it would be a nice sound to listen to during a lifetime.

'Mr Holmes!'

He felt a painful, sudden sting on his thigh, making him moan. His heart immediately sped up, reacting to the injection of adrenaline the physician had just gave to him. Doctor Watson used a small torch to test his visual reflexes, and then moved away Sherlock's shirt in order to auscultate him.

Someone had carried him to a small bedroom, with a big window which allowed the entrance of the sunlight. Over the bedside table, there was a pitcher, full of blue flowers, and a cup of water.

'Do you remember what happened, Mr Holmes?'

'I am a drug addict, Doctor Watson, not a person with amnesia', Sherlock stated, coldly.

'Very well. Can you please tell me what do you exactly remember, then?', asked the physician, never losing the polite composure which characterized him. Sherlock sighed. To be honest, he was feeling hollow, and barely reminded Mycroft and a black limousine… what in the world could have happened next? Doctor Watson noticed his patient's confusion.

'Mr Holmes, I was presenting me to you when you felt sick and lost your senses, about seven hours ago.'

Sherlock remained quiet, analyzing every inch of the physician's overall, trying to deduce something about the man. His eyes stuck in a small metallic plate, with golden letters. _Doctor John H. Watson_, he read.

'The thing I worry the most about your state is your frequent loss of conscience and the memory issue. According to your brother, this is not the first time you forget relatively common happenings…'

'My brother is a fool.' Sherlock wanted to stop such a conversation, to leave that stupid clinic forever, ignoring the physician who, somehow, was making him feel like a misbehaved child again.

Doctor Watson gave him an attentive look, apparently reflecting upon what should be said next.

'Mr Holmes', he started, unconsciously putting his hand on Sherlock's arm, in a way so delicate and tender that made him shiver, 'I'm not in the right position to advice you. However, I really think you should grab this opportunity and… _move on_.'

Sherlock's attention was divided between the sensation of the physician's touch and his incredibly comforting smile.

'I know you work with the police, solving difficult cases. I bet you truly need your memory intact in order to keep doing so, don't you?'

Sherlock stared at Doctor Watson's face. 'I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world.'

The last words had just escaped from his lips, unintentionally. He had no idea why they have even come to his mind; after all, why was he trying to impress a person he didn't know until a couple of hours ago?

'Yes, I read your blog. Impressive work about cigarette's ash, by the way.' The physician's tone of voice seemed so honest Sherlock hardly knew how to react.

'You're the first person who tells me that', Sherlock confessed, making Doctor Watson smile.

'So, about our previous conversation – are you ready to begin a new life, Mr Holmes?'

Once more, his mouth talked spontaneously.

'Yes, I'm ready.'

Doctor Watson finally left the room, leaving a confused but stupidly hopeful Sherlock laying on his single bed.

After a while, the same nurse who had greeted him at his arrival called him to dinner. It was served on a large room, with long, white tables. Sherlock chose an isolated seat, finding strange to join the group of… well, drug addicts, _people like him_. Sherlock had spent his entire life believing something inside him was special just for, violently, seeing his illusion destroyed by his brother's ideals. The rage against Mycroft didn't allow him to touch the food.

Unexpectedly, he felt someone approaching him. Doctor Watson was still on the clinic, maybe responsible for the night's shift.

'Good night, Mr Holmes', he said. 'May I join you?'

Sherlock noticed the tray the physician was carrying with his own meal.

'Of course.'

Doctor Watson sat graciously, looking at Sherlock's untouched food.

'You really need to eat. It's a very important step for your recovery. It will stop almost all the loss of conscience and strength you for the rest of the treatment.'

Not knowing exactly why – since he never obeyed anyone -, Sherlock made an effort to taste the meal, which was reasonable according to the standard of hospitals.

'Precisely how many years did you spend on the army? I presume it was a long period, about ten years, by your behavior.' Sherlock talked distractedly, more to himself than to the doctor, who had left his fork fall with the surprise.

'How can you possibly know I was on the army?'

Doctor Watson was definitely impressed. He reminded Sherlock had no access to Internet inside the clinic. Besides, his military experience was a thing he liked to keep to himself, and so very few people had heard about it.

For other side, Sherlock was delighted by having such an interested listener.

'First of all, your actions show an undeniable sense of discipline and self-control, and your stethoscope has a camouflage pattern, seeming very used. It should have been an essential instrument for your daily routine as an army's emergency doctor. I say emergency, of course, by the way you auscultated me, not asking for removing my shirt, as someone trained to deal with critical situations would naturally do. Keeping the stethoscope even though it is worn out proves you are still emotionally attached to something that happened during your military work… I dare to say you have lost there someone who was very important to you, maybe your best friend, what justifies the special affection for the stethoscope. '

Sherlock had spoken with almost no pauses for breathing, excited like never since many, many weeks. The physician remained quiet, mouth slightly opened. He dropped his eyes, embarrassed.

'I'm very sorry. I… I talked too much, I suppose.'

'You are _amazing_.' Doctor Watson said, making Sherlock's eyes widen. 'Never, in my whole life… You are absolutely right. I lost a very close friend during a shooting. I dropped out a few days after that.'

For the first time he could remember, Sherlock was blushing.

'I've read about you on the newspapers; the way you could deduce all about a murder just by watching the crime scene, solving an enigma in minutes. However, I'm even more impressed now, having seen how you actually make it.'

Doctor Watson grabbed his tray.

'Don't spoil your life, Mr Holmes. The world needs your talent.'

'Sherlock, please', asked him. The physician grinned.

That night, before falling asleep, Sherlock reminded every single moment he could. Inside him, there was a strange, burning feeling, whose origin remained completely unknown. Images were passing by his brilliant mind, flashing – Mycroft's disgusted face, the black limousine, the modern clinic and the young nurse, Doctor Watson saying he was amazing… definitely, the last one was dominating his mental panorama, subduing all the rest. But _why_? Sherlock couldn't tell exactly how a perfectly stranger left such a strong impression over him. Maybe he was about to find out.


	3. A new addiction

Time was passing lazily in the clinic. Every new day constituted a true challenge that Sherlock had to face. How he had gone so far, he couldn't tell. When he was feeling down, trapped among his insecurities and fears, Doctor Watson's words unavoidably appeared in his mind, so sparkling he simply couldn't ignore them. '_Don't spoil your life'_, the physician had said. Sometimes, Sherlock wasn't sure what more could be spoilt; nevertheless, he was determined to follow his advice, no matter the cost.

The physician had a strange control over Sherlock, of a kind the detective wasn't able to explain satisfactorily. He actually persuaded Sherlock to attend therapy sessions, which obliged him to _talk with people_. Sherlock remembered very well the kind of questions he was asked.

'Why did you consume drugs?', started his therapist, a young woman with green eyes.

Honestly, Sherlock knew perfectly the reason for such a consumption – he had always felt so lonely and overwhelmed that he needed an efficient strategy in order to forget his unbearable existence. However, he would never confess it to anyone.

'I don't know', he answered, trying to look convincing. 'I guess I just wanted to experience new things.'

And what new things! Drugs were one of the worst decisions Sherlock had ever made during his entire life, and he was the first person to admit it. Because of his addiction, his elder brother had forced him to attend rehab, exposing him to the humiliation of being treated as a child. Sherlock didn't even want to think about the way Lestrade and the people who he worked with would behave once his treatment was complete. Perhaps they would never regard him as credible again.

Even though, not everything was bad during the long days he spent laying on his bed, with his body hurting and trembling. His pain seemed to flow as an orchestral _crescendo_. Sherlock just couldn't think in nothing else, making him feel he was certainly become mad. And, when those rough moments were sucking all his hope and expectations, an almost angelical saviour always appeared: Doctor John Watson, grinning beautifully and bringing painkillers… his only light through the darkness.

'You are doing great, Sherlock.' He said, sitting on the corner of the bed, watching his patient while he was taking the pills. 'I know this is being tough, but don't worry. A few more days and it won't hurt anymore.'

'Really?', Sherlock asked, almost childishly.

'Yes, I promise. Hold on a bit longer, alright? And try to pass less time in your bedroom, there's a lot of activities you can do.'

'Doctor, I feel so bad I can't focus on anything. That's why I spend my days in bed.'

'I understand. Everything will get better. You will see.' And he sealed the promise with an astonishing smile, causing Sherlock's heart to skip a beat.

The next day, the detective received the first visit since he was hospitalized – Mycroft. 'He couldn't have chosen a worse day to appear', Sherlock thought. He was in real pain, hadn't slept much and his head hurt severely. His brother sat on a chair, facing him with a slight smile.

'Hello, brother dear.'

Sherlock turned his back on him, staring at the wall, silence being his only answer.

'Nice to see you too.'

The detective was mentally counting how many minutes separated him from seeing Doctor Watson again, the only one who could fade the pain and the anxiety which had become an uncontrollable part of him. He was already hearing footsteps along the corridor. The sound indicated him it was a short person, with a confident, delicate posture - Doctor Watson, of course.

Sherlock turned his head to the door and, a few seconds later, the physician appeared, with his halo of happiness and security.

'Good morning, Sherlock', he greeted, his voice as tender as ever. Only then he realized Mycroft was there. 'Oh, hello, Mr Holmes. Did you come to see how Sherlock is doing, I suppose?'

'Yes, Doctor', confirmed Mycroft, smirking in a really annoying way.

'Well, he's being exemplary. We are slowly reducing the amount of painkillers. He will be able to go home very soon.'

'Excellent. I deduce my brother is absolutely delighted with such news.'

Mycroft was very wrong – Sherlock didn't want to go, not after knowing Doctor Watson. He didn't want to be alone again, confronted with the demons from his past. He just wished to feel… not dispensable; necessary for someone, even if the person who valued him was an army's emergency doctor.

Doctor Watson gave Sherlock the painkillers, and then auscultated him. The detective noticed how attentive to his expression Mycroft was.

'I will be doing the afternoon's shift, if you need anything.' Doctor Watson said goodbye to him and Mycroft, leaving the room to see the other patients. Sherlock followed the physician with the eyes, until his silhouette was no longer visible.

Mycroft was more and more reflective, which irritated and almost scared Sherlock. He never liked the way his brother tried to seem smarter than him.

'What?', he shouted, feeling truly upset. Mycroft bit his lip.

'So… since when are you Doctor Watson's friend?'

'What in the world are you talking about?', asked Sherlock, raising his head. He couldn't expose himself. He had to remain tranquil; otherwise, Mycroft would be able to read all the turbulence inside his heart.

'You heard well. Since when do you allow a stranger to use your first name?'

'Don't you have nothing better to do, Mycroft? You are losing your time. I've a serious headache, and need to rest.'

The elder brother completely ignored the detective's remark.

'You know, Sherlock', he started, talking slowly, 'I sent you here to finish with your addiction, not to allow you to develop a new one… Perhaps much more dangerous than the first.'

Sherlock shook his head, in disbelief. 'You're out of your mind.'

'Brother dear, you can fool the entire world, but not me. You are becoming dependent on a person you even don't know, just because it's the way you get painkillers. If I have noticed this in… let's say, two minutes, imagine what Doctor Watson must think about the entire situation. Maybe he will suggest your transference to a psychiatrist very soon…'

The true was Mycroft didn't mean everything he was saying; he was sure Sherlock liked the physician, but he was also certain this one would never realize so. Although, he wanted to punish his brother a little bit, showing him he couldn't expect his acts to have no consequences. However, he never thought Sherlock would react the way he did.

The detective rose to his feet, shaking again, grabbing the clothes he had used when he first came to the clinic.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

He had lost the control of his emotions. Sherlock simply couldn't accept how much he appreciated Doctor Watson's kindness; it made part of his more intimate secrets. He was going to leave.

He walked furiously through the corridor, with Mycroft shooting at him, demanding him to stop. Doctor Watson was in the reception, checking some medical records, when he heard the excited voices.

'Mr Holmes! Sherlock! What's wrong?'

'Take your hands off me!' Sherlock yelled, making Mycroft go back. Doctor Watson understood the brothers had a quarrel.

'Sherlock, please, listen to me. You can't leave now. You haven't finished your treatment yet.'

'I don't care, Doctor. I'm leaving anyway.'

Sherlock made a sign to a taxi driver, near the clinic's main gate.

'Baker Street, please', he asked, leaving a very angry Mycroft and a confused physician behind.


	4. Please don't go

Doctor John Watson had already seen a lot of awkward situations, but this one had undeniably surprised him.

'I'm very sorry for what you have just seen, Doctor', started Mycroft, his voice shaking a little due to the last event. 'My brother is unstable.'

'Actually, Mr Holmes, I was wondering if you have possibly said something… aggressive to him?' The physician was stepping in wet, unknown floor, and he realized it. Consequently, he was struggling to keep his voice neutral and innocent. 'I mean, he was a bit angry, wasn't him?'

Mycroft stared at the ex-army's doctor, studying him carefully.

'Doctor Watson', he spoke, finally, 'I assure you I know how to deal with my brother. I appreciate you work and dedication, even though I fear it was all in vain. I won't be able to force him to finish the treatment.'

'Sometimes the treatment is not the most important part of the rehabilitation, Mr Holmes. Many patients only need love, comprehension and security. Please keep giving it to your brother, and I'm sure he won't use drugs anymore.'

Mycroft was starting to understand why Sherlock was so attached to the physician; the way he behaved was abnormally different from the cruel, harsh world outside.

'I will try. Goodbye, Doctor Watson.'

The physician stood at the reception, momentarily forgetting his duties, until Mycroft's black limousine was gone.

After the afternoon's shift, John decided to check Sherlock's medical records, hoping being able to find his phone number. He was starting to feel very anxious about the patient, fearing Mycroft would not appeal correctly to his reason.

Fortunately, there were two numbers – Sherlock's personal one and Mycroft's, this one already used by Doctor Watson during Sherlock's treatment. He used the subway travel to find some courage, not even daring to imagine how the detective would react to his call.

The physician lived in an old flat - the one he could afford, in the center of London, with the humble salary he received. He simply hated all about it – how cold it got during the winter, the old-fashioned furniture, the slight odor of humidity. Anyway, the circumstances had obliged him to close his eyes and forget all those unpleasant aspects.

He marked Sherlock's number using the mobile phone's keyboard, feeling finally insecure. Call him or call him not? He wasn't certain.

Two minutes. Ten minutes. His indecision was growing stronger.

After half an hour thinking, Doctor Watson took a deep breath and pressed the green button on his mobile.

In Baker Street, the general mood couldn't be worse. Sherlock hadn't felt so bad during his life, not even when he experienced the unbearable pain provoked by the deprivation of drugs. He was absorbed in his sorrow and loneliness when he heard a phone ringing.

'_Mycroft_', he thought, gritting his teeth. Perhaps his brother imagined he had not done enough harm. Sherlock was not going to give him the satisfaction of answering.

The sound stopped, starting about three minutes after. This time, the detective was a little more puzzled. It couldn't be Mycroft – he would never call him two times in a so short period. The person who was trying to contact him was definitely worried, otherwise would have given up easily.

Sherlock made an effort to get up and searched for his mobile phone, answering the insistent ringing.

'Hello?'

John gulped; maybe he never actually believed Sherlock would talk to him. 'Good afternoon, Mr Holmes… Sherlock', he corrected. 'I'm Doctor Watson. How… How are you?'

He immediately regretted those words. What in the world had come to his mind? '_He'll find this question so stupid he will hang up on me_.'

Surprisingly, however, Sherlock didn't stop talking.

'Fine, Doctor, thank you.' It was truth; Sherlock was fine _now,_ talking with the physician, almost touched by his kind gesture, appreciating deeply the sweet tone of his voice.

'I'm very sorry to bother you, but… I got a little concerned by your leaving…'

_'__He is concerned'_. Sherlock was absolutely delighted. Finally, someone genuinely worried about him. He smiled openly.

'I was thinking… If there is something I can do for you. Anything.'

Sherlock knew perfectly what he needed. He wished Doctor Watson's friendship, his gentle expression and delicate behavior always around him. However, he couldn't ask for that.

'Thank you so much, Doctor Watson, but please don't worry. I am okay.'

The physician sounded a bit disappointed.

'Alright then. I wish you the best.'

Sherlock took a while to realize the conversation had ended. He was not going to hear Doctor Watson's voice anymore. He was alone, more alone than he remembered.

He grabbed the skull over the fireplace, wrote _Doctor J.H. Watson _in a piece of paper and stuck it on the frontal bone. Somehow, it helped him dealing with the despair. Never before had Sherlock react so badly to the absence of human contact. Usually, he liked to keep people apart, in a place so distant they couldn't hurt him. It didn't work this time, though. Not with Doctor Watson, definitely.

The night was controlling the Londoner sky, taking away the sunlight and making the detective's heart hurt anymore. The skull he hugged would not be enough comfort much longer. Embracing his knees, he sobbed silently.

Doctor Watson couldn't sleep either. He had tried ten different positions so far, finding his bed so uncomfortable like a carpet made of thorns. He got up suddenly, grabbing his mobile phone with a crazy idea. He wanted to call Mycroft, asking him for Sherlock's address. Then, he could verify, with his own eyes, if the detective was truly well.

The phone had barely rung two times when Mycroft answered it.

'Goodnight, Doctor Watson.' He greeted. He didn't seem unpleased, despite the hours.

'Goodnight, Mr Holmes. I'm afraid I'm disturbing you, but I really needed to ask you a slightly odd question.'

'Go on, Doctor.'

The physician breathed heavily, trying to remain focused.

'I was thinking if you could gently provide me your brother's address, allowing me to check his state.'

'That's definitely an odd request, Doctor Watson', Mycroft referred. So, it was not only Sherlock who regarded the physician his personal friend… the sentiment was mutual.

John was blushing, not certain how he would excuse himself this time.

'221B, Baker Street', Mycroft said.

'Sorry, what?'

'It's my brother's address, Doctor. I should warn you, however, that he's not used to deal with visits.'

The physician felt a big relief filling his chest.

'Thank you so much, Mr Holmes. Have a good night.'

'You're welcome. Please keep me informed.'

In a rush, John went to the kitchen. He prepared tea, put the steaming water in a thermos flask, grabbed a box of cookies and ran to the subway, deserted by that hour of night. He had to catch a cab in order to reach Baker Street. In front of 221B door, he felt a tight down in his stomach. Somehow, however, he found enough strength to lightly press the bell.

A friendly lady opened the door.

'Yes?', she said, looking at him.

'Goodnight. I'm Doctor John Watson. I was wondering if I could talk to Mr Sherlock Holmes.'

'I'm very sorry, but I don't think he would actually receive your visit. He was feeling very tired this afternoon.'

In the flat above, Sherlock was listening carefully. He knew that voice… No, it couldn't be… certainly, his mind was tricking him...

'And that's exactly why I'm here', the Doctor insisted. 'I must assure he's healthy and stable…'

It was not an illusion. Sherlock ran downstairs, suddenly appearing at the door.

'Doctor Watson', he stated, perplexed, happy like never before. His blue eyes showed the mixture of emotions inside him. 'Please come in.'

Sherlock led the way, opening the door of his own flat. He was taken by a large amount of panic while seeing the skull and the paper with the doctor's name. He immediately hid it, trying to welcome the physician the best he could. Fortunately for both of them, the flat was organized, since Sherlock hadn't spent much time at home. The detective offered John a seat, still marveled due to the unexpected visit.

'So, why are you here, Doctor Watson? I must confess I didn't expect you to appear.'

'John, please', said the physician quickly, blushing furiously. 'Since I'm not your doctor anymore, I think you can call me John.'

Sherlock shook his head, agreeing.

'I came here because I wanted to know if you were well. I know I had already called, but…'

'You wanted to be sure', Sherlock concluded. 'And you brought tea.'

'Yes', John confirmed, smiling.

'Give me a few seconds, I will look for some cups.' Sherlock started to walk towards the kitchen, trying to be the less time he could away from the doctor. However, a sudden dizziness overwhelmed him, his legs inconsistently wobbling. Maybe the emotions of the day were finally taking control of him. He fell onto the floor.

'Sherlock!' John had already reached his position, checking if the detective was hurt.

Sherlock couldn't lose his conscience; he couldn't risk having a memory loss capable of erase the uncommonly happy moment he was living.

'Did you eat anything today?', the doctor asked, full of apprehension. 'You have the symptoms of hypoglycemia.'

'No, I didn't', Sherlock admitted. He suspected John would be able to understand if he had tried to lie.

'What have I told you about eating?' The physician was helping him to get up, sitting him on an armchair. 'Don't worry about the cups, I brought everything with me.'

Sherlock stared at him with admiration, watching him taking two porcelain cups from his bag and filling them with hot, aromatic tea.

'Hope you like cookies.'

Sherlock was so nicely surprised he didn't know what to say. He wanted the night to last forever.

'So, are you currently working on a case?' John asked, pointing to some folders at the corner of the room.

'Those papers? No. They belong to an experiment I was making before going to the clinic.' John eyes were fixed on the detective's face, showing sincere interest. 'Oh… Do you want to know what it was about?'

John nodded, grinning. Sherlock talked about complicated calculus, chemical formulae and lab's procedures, making him marveling at his astonishing intelligence and brilliant, clear mind. They ended up chatting casually, enjoying each other company, until a bell indicated it was two a.m.

'Maybe I should go now', John said, breaking the sweet charm provided by his presence. 'You need to rest.'

For the third time since he had known Doctor Watson, Sherlock's mouth talked so fast his mind had no control over it.

'You don't _have _to leave.' He didn't want to sound desperate, but his voice betrayed him a little bit. 'There's a free room upstairs. And I need an assistant, if you would like to work with me.'

'_Please don't go'_, Sherlock's mind was demanding. '_Not now_.' Nevertheless, he immediately corrected himself, talking in chorus with John.

'Perhaps it's a bad idea.'

'I think it's a lovely idea.'

The two men laughed.

'So you'll definitely stay.' Sherlock couldn't believe his luck. He smiled cheerfully, putting in that simple expression everything he really wanted to say – '_Thank you, John. Thank you for giving me a reason to live_.'

**I guess the next chapter will be the last one… What do you guys think? Do you like this story so far? :)**


	5. No more nightmares

Sherlock still couldn't believe how much his life had changed since John accepted to move in with him, leaving his job in the clinic to be his assistant. John was certainly the most adorable human being the world – and Sherlock in particular – had ever seen. His presence was much more addictive than any drug on Earth. Sherlock wanted so badly to be near him, staring at his pleasant smile and experiencing a sort of redemption he was always able to provide. The detective was sure that involuntary picking John as his flat mate had been the best happening in many years.

John was happy too. He left his old, stale house without even looking back and finally moved to Baker Street. It was really a calm, cosy neighbourhood. Mrs Hudson, the landlady, had a sweet attitude towards him, making John feel welcome from the very first day. And, of course, there was Sherlock – the mysterious, amazing man who had captivated him so deeply.

Even though the cheerfully days he was now living, Doctor Watson's nightmares hadn't abandoned him at all. Perhaps the new bedroom and the radical twist his life was having were making them even worse.

During John's first night at Baker Street, Sherlock heard him babbling distressfully while going to his own bedroom, after a spectacular experiment that had literally destroyed half of the kitchen, which would provoke Mrs Hudson's fury for sure. He didn't want to come in because he thought John could consider it as an invasion of his private space; nevertheless, the physician seemed so anxious and desperate the detective hadn't enough courage to ignore him.

Sherlock opened the door, carefully, and touched John's arm, the skin covered with drops of sweat.

'John', he called gently. 'It's okay. You are okay. Wake up.'

Finally, John opened his eyes, visibly confused.

'Sherlock.'

'I'm very sorry for having entered your room, but… you sounded quite scared.'

'Oh, there's no need for excuses', John replied, immediately.

'Have you just had a nightmare?'

'Yeah.' John was nodding. 'Sometimes I dream about the army, no idea why… sounds pretty childish, doesn't it?'

'Maybe it has traumatized you someway', Sherlock stated. 'And no, it's not childish. I have nightmares myself. For example, my elder brother… well, let's say, he is definitely my living, personal nightmare, ready to haunt me at any time.'

John started to laugh, what induced a beautiful smile upon Sherlock's face.

'I guess your brother doesn't count.' Despite the laughing, the detective could see he was still very frightened and unsecure, and had a sudden idea.

'I know what will make you feel better, John. Just wait a few minutes, will you?'

'Sherlock, you don't have to… bothering you is the last thing…'

'You don't bother me, I assure you.' Sherlock left the room. He was determined to make some tea, even if he had to destroy the rest of the kitchen to accomplish that. For a person who had never fried an egg, dealing with a steaming kettle could be quite a challenge. He managed to prepare a cup of hot tea, though, and grabbed his violin under the arm.

John was sitting on the bed, distracted with his own thoughts. He grinned at the detective as soon as the other entered the room. John's expression had the strange power of warming up Sherlock's heart, in a way no one had done before.

'How nice of you, Sherlock! Thank you so much.'

The doctor drank his tea slowly, while listening to the melody Sherlock was playing. It was so beautiful that could nearly make him cry.

'You play so, so well…' John said. In the next moment, he was falling asleep, with no more nightmares disturbing him.

Sherlock looked at his friend and smiled; then, removed the cup from the bed and covered John with a blanket, leaving the room silently.

The next day, John woke up early, and started to prepare breakfast. He wanted to make sure Sherlock would start to feed himself properly. He couldn't stop grinning every time he remembered how gentle Sherlock had been the night before.

'Good morning, John', Sherlock greeted, his voice still a bit sleepy. He was dressing his nightgown and showed a ruffled hair.

'Hello, Sherlock. I prepared you breakfast.'

'Do I really have to eat every single day?'

'Yes, Sherlock', John affirmed, his doctor's posture coming out. 'Several times a day, to be precise.'

Someone was knocking on the door.

'I open it', John said. 'Keep eating', he added, making Sherlock sigh with frustration.

Mrs Hudson entered the flat with her habitual joy, but stood horrified once she glanced at the stove, every piece of its glass darkened.

'Sherlock, what have you done to my kitchen?'

'An experiment', Sherlock informed, innocently. 'A very important one, by the way.'

'Well, I honestly hope John will be able to stop you from making mess.'

'I _don't_ make mess, Mrs Hudson', the detective retorted, frowning. 'I use stoves for the sake of human kind.'

Mrs Hudson simply couldn't avoid giving a small burst of laughter.

'Sherlock, Mycroft is downstairs. He says he wants to see you.'

'Well, I guess you should inform Mycroft I don't want to see _him_.'

'But you have to, Sherlock. It may be important! I will tell him to come in.'

However, Mycroft didn't wait for Mrs Hudson's call. He was already knocking impatiently on the door, which John opened quickly.

'Doctor Watson?!', he exclaimed. 'What are you doing here?'

The question had strongly embarrassed John, making him mutter. 'I…'

Sherlock appeared by his side.

'What do you want, Mycroft?', he asked, coldly.

'I came to see how you are doing, brother dear.'

He entered the flat, walking around and sitting on a couch, his legs crossed. John decided to give them privacy, and went towards the kitchen with Mrs Hudson, who was telling him all about last night's TV soap opera.

'What is Doctor Watson making here, Sherlock?' Mycroft was concealing his exasperation with difficulty.

'He is my flat mate now.'

Mycroft gave him an unpleasant smile. 'You must be joking.'

Sherlock said nothing.

'How many times will I have to repeat you?' Mycroft got up and approached him, his voice annoying low. '_Do not get involved_.' He marked every syllable firmly, as he wanted Sherlock to memorize those words. 'What are you going to do after he finds someone, Sherlock? Sit here and cry for him? Or do you think he always will be here for you?'

'Get out, Mycroft'. His brother had touched a sensitive point of Sherlock's personality, and he knew it. 'I don't need your stupid advices.'

'As you wish.' Mycroft left the flat, closing the door calmly behind him. Despite the nasty conversation, Sherlock didn't feel bad at all. Once in the kitchen, he spent all morning smiling, John and Mrs Hudson cheering him up. And it was feeling _so_ good.

**Definitely this is not the final chapter… I'm not already prepared to say John and Sherlock goodbye! What about you? :)**


	6. The wedding rings

Sherlock had now a friend, no doubts about it; and, honestly, John was not only a friend. He was his lifeboat. He was his candle throughout the dark night of his soul. He was the one who liked him like a whole. In conclusion, he was his _best_ friend.

People who had never seen Sherlock with such thing like 'friends' threw the detective many inquisitive glances. The suspicious group included Anderson and, of course, agent Donovan. They seemed to think it was a matter of time until Sherlock would murder John in a sadistic, brilliant way. Lestrade, on the other side, was enchanted by that friendship. In his opinion, John was definitely the balance factor Sherlock had needed for so long. Those two gave him many occasions of good laugh. Every time he remembered John taking a selfie with Sherlock – no idea how he actually convinced the detective –, he couldn't avoid a burst of laughter. And there were also the open smiles. Lestrade hadn't seen Sherlock smiling so much since he had known him, many years before, when the detective was barely an adult.

Mycroft was not satisfied with the entire situation. He considered Doctor Watson's attitude as a break in antique ethical codes, and still couldn't believe Sherlock had actually accepted the physician as his flat mate. Something was very wrong. Hitherto, he thought he knew well his little brother. Now, however, Sherlock's behavior acquired a mysterious component, impossible of discern.

On a sunny day, of a kind which is rarely observed in London, the detective was called to analyse a jewellery. It was a simple case, including obsolete burglars with almost no intelligence; at least, that's what Sherlock thought as soon as he observed the crime scene, establishing hundreds of mental connections between the details he absorbed. In one word, it was _boring_. Sherlock solved it in half an hour, making John saying 'Brilliant!' with genuine admiration. The detective just adored how deeply those simple words could touch his heart.

After leaving the jewellery, John stared at the broken glasses of the shop windows, which mixed with silver wedding rings. Sherlock followed his eyes, curious to know what he was thinking about.

'It must be great, don't you think, Sherlock?', John started, quite thoughtful. 'I mean, having someone to rely during a lifetime. Getting married.'

Sherlock frowned at those words. He didn't need to get marry. He had already someone to rely on. He had John.

'Perhaps, John. I must confess I'm not really an expert in what has to do with that issue.'

'I'm sure you aren't so because you don't what to, Sherlock', John stated. 'You're amazing. I bet you can learn to be whatever you want.'

Sherlock froze. John had suddenly become inexplicably red.

'That's the nicest thing I've ever heard, John. Most of the time, the less offensive description of myself that I'm confronted with is 'freak'. Thank you.'

Sherlock hugged the army doctor, clumsily, due to the lack of physical contact he usually established with other people. But John didn't mind; it felt good anyway, especially because it was a proof the detective truly cared about their friendship.

Many weeks after the jewel's case, Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about the wedding rings which had captured John's interest; neither could the detective prevent himself of imagining how lovely such a ring would look once placed in John's slim, long fingers, especially if he could use one as well in his own hand. The idea had tormented him so much Sherlock wasn't able to focus entirely on Lestrade's cases. Because of that, he decided to buy them. Maybe bringing them with him would provide some comfort, ending with all the crazy, unprecedented projects which were burning his chest.

He decided to leave home early, before John wake up, in order to escape his unavoidable questions about where was he going. The shop had already been fully restored, showing dozens of jewels impeccably arranged. The owner greeted him with a smile, thanking him again for solving the case and making the thieves going to jail. Sherlock recognized immediately the shiny rings, and was even able to say what size they should be. After all, he knew himself… and had mentally measured John's fingers the night before.

Walking on the street, Sherlock was feeling absurdly happy, the rings jingling in his coat's pocket. The jewels had cost him a small fortune, and had no apparent utility. At least, he could get back to work again. Maybe he could offer them to John someday, if the doctor found someone special. The idea, however, made him shiver. He didn't want to lose him. He simply wouldn't be able to survive without him by his side.

He caught a cab in order to reach Baker Street, but the traffic was simply horrible, making the travel last two or three times more than usual. John had texted him, saying he was going to the grocer's. Sherlock grinned while reading the message, glad the physician had even worried to warn him.

At Baker Street, an unpleasant gest was waiting for him. Mycroft was looking at his mobile's phone impatiently, the black umbrella by his side.

'Hello, brother dear. May I ask where have you been?'

'It's not your business, Mycroft. What do you want?'

'You're always so charming, Sherlock', the other smirked. 'Open the door. I have to talk to you about an important case.'

'Can't you go to see Lestrade? Isn't he competent enough to hear your boring talk?'

'Sherlock! Mr Holmes!' John appeared at the corner of the street, ready to cross the road, carrying two paper bags.

'Look, Sherlock', Mycroft whispered, teasing him. 'Your fiancé is here.'

Sherlock stared furiously at him. Some days later, he would deeply regret such look. While he was distracted with Mycroft, a car sped up, facing the clear street at that hour of the morning. The driver had not even noticed John, who was already crossing the road.

Sherlock heard a scream and a rough impact. The next moment, John was laying on the ground, unconscious, nearly breathing. A small poll of blood was forming around his pale neck.

The detective's mind processed the whole situation awkwardly slowly. The world seemed stopped.

_No. This is just a bad dream. _

Sherlock started running towards John, while Mycroft was calling the emergency services.

_No, no. He is okay. I am okay. When I wake up, everything will be perfectly fine. _

He kneeled at John's side, powerless, feeling his heart melting through painful spasms.

_No, no, no. You can't leave me. Not now. Not this way. _

An ambulance arrived. Mycroft had to grab him by the arms, making him stepping back so the paramedics could assist John. Sherlock offered him no resistance. He was still too shocked to do so. Violent sobs made him bent his body, in an attempt to stop the devouring void inside him. However, the effect was even worse, because it made him feel the rings' package against his skin.


	7. So different but so the same

Sherlock didn't remember much. He remembered a car, an ambulance, Mycroft shouting at him, saying he needed to step back. Paramedics. An infernal rush against the unstoppable clock. John laying on a stretcher, unconscious. John's precious, almost holly blood, staining the dirty road… That was all his mental palace could bare. So Sherlock refused thinking. For the first time during his existence, he preferred not to calculate the odds on John's survival. No, he couldn't even imagine what would happen next, while walking impatiently throughout the hospital's waiting room.

Despair, confusion, fear. Sherlock was experiencing crazy, harsh feelings, completely powerless to keep them on their golden cage. _Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side_. He had said that, and his own words were now turning against their master. Except… it couldn't be love, could it? No… But so, what was the sensation of having his heart ripped from his chest about?

Caring about John had been the best and worst decision of his life. It had completed the undone puzzle inside him, giving him a reason to move on, raise his chin high in the air and look at the immensity of the sky with true hope. However, it also meant he was exposed, fragile, placed in a level where it was pretty easy to get hurt.

He felt his eyes burning while watching the army doctor's bandages, covering his blond hair like an odd, white crown. He spent countless hours near his bed, waiting, as he wanted to be the first person John would see after waking up. And, when he eventually did, weak and confused, Sherlock's hand was tightening his own, leading him to the light, reassuring and comforting him like no one before.

'Sherlock', John pronounced, simply. Hearing his name articulated by the doctor's voice was everything he was needing. Sherlock smiled, no possible response able to translate what he was feeling.

'John', he said, like stating something important and sacred. That extremely common name could almost make him shiver. The two men stared at each other, unspoken, inconvenient words flowing through their eyes; blue in both cases, but with very particular shades, reflecting their radically opposite personalities. So different, but so the same.

Two months after the accident, John was back to Baker Street, ready to devote himself to his work as Sherlock's assistant. This one tried to hide his anxiety about him, but it was really hard. The physician couldn't leave the flat for ten minutes without receiving, at least, twenty messages from Sherlock, demanding to know where he was. Additionally, walking to the grocer's was completely forbidden – Sherlock decided they would get everything online, what made John stunning.

'Sherlock', he tried to argue, without knowing if he should laugh or feeling exasperated. 'It was an accident. It could have happened with every other person. Being at home doesn't necessarily mean I will be safe from unavoidable dangers! After all, I'm a soldier!'

Sherlock didn't bother looking at him, still focused on his microscope. 'Don't be ridiculous, John. I am not trying to prevent you from going shopping. I simply think the act is a waste of time. You should use those moments helping me to solve a case.'

The detective was lying, shamelessly; nevertheless, he could actually manage to be an excellent actor if he wanted to, making John nod at his words, ready to respect his opinion and keeping away from cars, roads and all the random aspects of daily life capable of hurting him when Sherlock wasn't present.

Lestrade called Sherlock, affirming he had a new, tricky case perfect for the detective. It was pretty hard to convince Sherlock to actually go to the crime scene; he thought Lestrade was overreacting, as always, and feared he would feel more bored than usual. John had to strongly appeal to his power of persuasion in order to make him leave the flat. The physician desperately needed fresh air and experiencing the sense of adrenaline that every new case could provide.

Sherlock was right. The case was merely _boring_. _Murder, single woman, smuggling activities_. His impossible deductions were completed after ten minutes of attentive observation. Once he finished, he captured agent Donovan's scorn, frowning at him. Beside him, John was still trying to absorb every single detail from what he had just explained.

'Brilliant!', he exclaimed, happily. Sherlock gave him a long, curious glance, his elegant fingers together, delicately touching his chin.

They were walking on the street, holding large cups of coffee, discussing some aspects of what they had just seen. John suggested sitting on a bench before going back to Baker Street. He was feeling free and relaxed, and didn't wish to see himself trapped between the walls of the flat. Sherlock agreed. While seating, the ring's package lightly touched his skin. _What in the world?_ How had he completely forgotten them? It didn't seem unlikely, though, since John's accident had been his only thought during many weeks. He started playing with the little box inside his coat's pocket, completely unaware about what was happening around him.

'And I simply don't understand how you managed to see she was killed near the river…' John's voice was so melodious it was easy to get enchanted by it. 'Humm… Sherlock? Have you heard anything I was saying?'

He jumped when John's hand touched his shoulder, and felt his cheeks turning a bit pink, like a misbehaved kid surprised during an assault to the cookie's jar.

'Sorry, John, I was just…' _Good Lord_. He was feeling too embarrassed, unable to make up any smart explanation for his attitude.

'Yes?' The physician's tone was understandable yet demanding.

The detective sighed deeply.

'Look, I… I've got you something. Here you have.' Sherlock took the rings' package out of his pocket, delivering it to John. The army doctor opened the box, surprised and confused. 'I saw you liked those wedding rings during the jewellery's case, and bought them to thank you for all the help you have given me so far. Maybe you can offer one of them to someone special… when you find a person that deserves you.' The last words were very difficult to articulate, since his mouth seemed totally dry. He felt exposed, powerless, unable to read John's expression and thoughts.

'Thank you, Sherlock.' John touched the silver silky texture of the jewels with the point of his fingers. 'I know already someone who really deserved to receive one of them.'

An uncomfortable silence fell over them. Sherlock frowned slightly, but recovered his dignity in seconds.

'Who's the lucky one?', he said, with a fake smile. 'You got to present her to me.'

John didn't answer. Now, it was his time to be distracted, lost among his own expectations and dreams. He had already placed one of the rings in his finger.

'John?', Sherlock called, almost whispering, afraid of interrupt him.

'Can I see your left hand, Sherlock?'

The detective didn't understand the odd request, but stretched his arm towards him. John contemplated the pale, beautiful hand for a while. Finally, he put the other ring in Sherlock's appropriate finger.

'Yeah, they fit perfectly.' John stated, grinning. Sherlock's heart was beating so fast he could feel slight movements down his shirt. His eyes reflected a mixture of joy, fear and concern, making them even brighter.

'Don't worry', John said, kissing his forehead. The traffic's noise sounded like an angelical song due to the beauty of the moment. 'Everything will be alright.'

_Of course_. With John beside him, everything would be perfectly okay.

**And this is it – my longest fic since I've joined Fanfiction, some months ago. I really hope you've liked it. Thanks a lot for reading this mess! :)**


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